


midwinter fireworks, and a hundred cups of hot chocolate

by followingthesky



Category: Produce 101 (TV), Wanna One (Band)
Genre: M/M, Samuel for like a second, and HE MEETS WOOJIN, and Hyungseob was a champion, but quit due to injury, figure skater Hyungseob, figure skating AU, idol Woojin, in which Wanna One still exists, need i say anything else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 08:53:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13232319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followingthesky/pseuds/followingthesky
Summary: In which Hyungseob, Figure Skating World Junior Champion and future Olympic hopeful, quit skating due to injury, and Woojin is a Nation's Idol with a crazy schedule and midnight ramen cravings.





	midwinter fireworks, and a hundred cups of hot chocolate

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Long time no see, and HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!! 
> 
> So I had this fic sitting around unfinished for a while now, but I decided to finish it for the story to be nicely in time for the New Year, and it kinda fits the story itself as well, so I'm glad :) Also, I think this'll be my last Jinseob fic, I had an absolutely wonderful time writing for the fandom, you guys are the sweetest people and I am so glad that I found this lovely community <33 Much love to you all and I hope you like this story!

 

It’s early January.

 

Although, he muses, the Christmas markets in the neighborhood square have yet to close for the season. He glances over at the impressive spread of stalls across the park, long closed for the night. Its customers are likely all at home right now, fast asleep under warm blankets, away from the biting cold of midwinter. Hundreds of thousands of twinkling fairy lights draped across tent tops have been switched off, saving their magic for the next day. _There are twelve days of Christmas after all._

 

The New Year has also come and gone, but unlike Christmas, people seemed to have gotten over that pretty fast. He thinks he kind of understands; the New Year is an explosion of excitement, a single blinding firework of positivity and impressive resolution that kind of fizzles out once the countdown is up and the partying comes to a close.

 

Okay, it’s a _little_ bit sad. Just a little, though, because fireworks are really cool.

 

But still, when compared to _Christmas_ , who used every cheat code in the book to get eleven extra days to itself, _plus_ a whole bunch of cheesy theme songs and decorations and the obligatory present buying that probably take up another eleven days (or more) of preparation anyways, New Years kinda pales in comparison. You don’t really ever hear of New Years presents.

 

 

Speaking of presents, it’s nearly three am, and Hyungseob remembers why he came here in the first place.

 

He turns his attention away from the Christmas market, back across the deserted park, and finally to the public ice rink in front of him, dimly lit by the weak glow of nearby street lights. A flicker of doubt crosses his face as he looks from the ice to his feet. It’s been a week with them chucked under his dirty bed, but he swears he can still smell the fresh leather from here. He purses his lips.

 

Like the rest of Korea, he should probably be sleeping.

 

He steps into the rink, one tentative black boot at a time. The crunch of ice against metal echoes into the silent air, impossibly loud in the unusual quiet of the city. The new skates are stiff on his feet, and the leather is uncomfortably rigid around his ankles, not unlike the way plaster casts would be.

 

He hadn’t known what his parents had been thinking by getting him these. He hadn’t the heart to tell them to take them back to the shop, but they’d go to waste otherwise. Granted, his mom had said that he’d outgrown his old pair, but that was kind of the _point_. Hyungseob sighs.

Then again, moms wouldn’t be moms if they didn’t completely miss the point from time to time.

 

 

Long story short, he was skating again.

 

Clenching his jaw tight and never letting go of the parapet, Hyungseob slowly, slowly, begins to glide.

 

 

\--------------

 

 

When Hyungseob was younger, he’d had a dream. Not a sleeping dream, but a real dream. An ambition. And the worst part was, it was something that ‘could’ve been’.

Hyungseob doesn’t like to think about that latter part much, because while it might’ve had been true once, it doesn’t apply to him anymore.

 

He glides across the dirty ice at three am in early January, bundled up in layers of coats and scarves and breath hanging thickly in the air, clouding his vision as he skates. His joints are numb from the cold and his movements are hesitant, and though he eventually relinquishes his grasp upon the flimsy parapet as he does his rounds, he never strays too far from the edges of the rink.

 

It’s his first time at a public rink, he realises. The bone numbing cold turns harsh as he starts to pick up speed, slicing at his face with unforgiving intensity. Ignoring the pain, he skates faster, and his heart thumps painfully in his chest. He’s not sure with what, though. Adrenaline? Terror? Bewilderment? Most likely all three, plus a whole lot more that he can’t name.

 

He doesn’t expect much from an outdoor rink, but this patch of ice is frighteningly bumpy and unkept, a far cry from the rinks at his old training centres. The new skates don’t help in the least, not bending where they need to and blade skidding scarily over dips in the ice. It’s almost like a really halfhearted obstacle course.

 

Hyungseob stumbles to a stop, breaths coming in short gasps and heart thumping furiously. This definitely won’t become a habit.

 

 

\---------------

 

 

If his mom notices his new skates starting to look a little more worn as the days go by, she doesn’t say so. Though Hyungseob doesn’t think she really needs to – her small smile and the warm relief in her eyes are answer enough. Hyungseob doesn’t want her to hope, though.

 

He still goes to the rink at an obscene hour every morning, away from the prying eyes and nosy noses of the public. Once he gains a little more confidence, he starts practicing his edges, working on his basic skating skills, body practicing even footwork sometimes, and his brain can’t really comprehend. A three-turn here, a twizzle there. He can feel it coming back, bit by bit. Is it really still muscle memory, even after all these years? He must have some impressive muscle memory, then. Is he surprised by it? Not entirely. He remembers being an ambitious child, and _ambitious_ was putting it lightly.

 

 

As days turn into weeks, Hyungseob tries spinning. He tries spread eagles, tries Ina Bauers, hydroblades with surprising ease. He tries everything he’d done before, but doesn’t attempt a single jump.

No, that’s not it. He _won’t_ attempt.

 

 _It’s the jumps_. Hyungseob grits his teeth, removing his outermost coat angrily. It’s always been the jumps.

 

 

 

\-------------------

 

 

Korea had been utterly in love with figure skating for a stint of time when he was younger, a time that Hyungseob remembers clear as crystal. It was the time that Kim Yuna, Korea’s beloved Ice Queen, had been at the peak of her career, Olympic gold medal and all. He’d remembered idolising her the way others his age would idolise those kpop dancing groups that appeared on tv and magazines and things.

 

Hyungseob remembers being a Junior competitor at the time. He remembers beginning his rounds in the Junior Circuit, remembers his first ever Junior Worlds. Back then, he also remembers watching the dazzling competitions of the _Senior_ _Circuit,_ though _,_ an untouchable league. He’d watch, starry eyed, at the gravity defying jumps of his seniors, the skilful edge work, the whizzing spins, the way their blades so deftly responded to their every command.

 

Anyone watching them would’ve been awestruck, and Hyungseob remembers being ambitious.

 

 

\---------------

 

 

Hyungseob remembers, and he grits his teeth, angry tears forming at the edges of his vision. He spins and spins and spins until he falls, layers of coats cushioning his back as he gazes into the sky, head too dizzy to think anymore.

 

_Ambitious, huh._

Look where that got him.

 

 

\---------------

 

 

 

It’s early February, but somehow no less cold than early January had been.

 

Hyungseob skids to a halt, quickly stepping off the rink and onto the small, ratty doormat of a carpet provided for changing shoes. He checks the time on his phone and grimaces. It’s three fifty-one am, later than he’d like, though he’s probably a hypocrite by this point. He changes back into sneakers, deftly slipping skate guards over his blades and haphazardly stuffing the bulky boots into a haversack. He throws his winter coat over his shoulder and walks briskly away, not once turning to look back at the carvings on ice that have somehow gotten so intricate as the month passed.

 

He stops by a twenty-four hour convenience store on his way back, a tiny corner shop a few streets down that he likes because it has a fridge for warm drinks and sells snacks for real cheap. He ends up choosing a bottle of lukewarm water after perusing the cramped aisles, paying the yawning cashier and cracking the cap open when he turns to leave.

 

He blinks, and his lips turn down into a frown. It’s started to rain, the pellets of water only growing heavier and speedier by the second.

 

“Yikes,” he mutters. He’s got an umbrella, but he thinks he might wait for the rain to subside a little first. Winter rain is not fun.

 

“We’ve got some tables,” the boy manning the cashier offers, noticing the rain. He blinks away sleep from behind round glasses and raises a slow hand to point to the back of the store. “You can have a seat there, if you want.”

 

“Thanks, uh..” Hyungseob sends the other a tired smile, eyes flickering down to a name tag. _Euiwoong_. Well. Hyungseob isn’t even gonna _try_ to pronounce that. “Thanks.”

 

Euiwoong nods, and Hyungseob shuffles to the back of the store. He sits down with his bottle of water, and drinks absently.

 

His bottle is two-thirds done and the rain still doesn’t show any indication of slowing down when the doorbell chimes once more, signalling the presence of a new customer. Hyungseob raises his eyebrows in surprise, craning his neck past stacks of goods to see a figure run in, wrapped head to toe in black winter wear and dripping wet from the weather.

The person ( _he? she? Hyungseob can’t tell_ ) stands stock still after entering, breathing heaving breaths from the run here, as if to recharge. After a solid minute or so, a suppressed shudder runs through them and they creak slowly into motion. Amused, Hyungseob chuckles quietly.

 

Another few minutes has the hooded figure sitting at the next table down, steaming cup of ramen between strong fingers. Fox-like eyes regard Hyungseob warily under a thick hood before quickly flickering away, and they pull down a black face mask to blow at hot noodles.

 

 

“Ramen at this hour?” Hyungseob asks, curious. He feels the ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of his lip.

 

The boy’s eyes dart back to him, hood still up and face shadowed, but Hyungseob thinks he sees a startled flicker in dark eyes.

 

The boy coughs. “Uh,” he says eloquently, voice deep, and Hyungseob waits. “I was. Hungry.”

 

Hyungseob laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m not judging you,” he smiles, and a lock of dyed red hair falls over the boy’s eyes as he starts wolfing down his ramen in record speed.

 

It’s thirty seconds flat before he stands. Hyungseob’s eyes are wide, half with amazement. The other half is something akin to horror.

 

“Right,” he says, as the other moves to throw the empty cup away. The other moves past him to the trash bin, and Hyungseob turns in his seat. “ _Now_ I’m judging you.” He points an accusatory finger at the other, gaping. “That was inhuman! Are you in a hurry or something?”

The boy pulls his face mask up once again, shrugging once. “I’m a fast eater,” he says by way of explanation, voice muffled. And Hyungseob is perplexed, but he lets it go there, despite the too many questions still rattling about in his brain. The boy, hood still up, moves to the entrance of the store, and Hyungseob stands, trailing after him, interest piqued.

 

The boy is just leaving when Hyungseob’s eyes widen in alarm at the situation outside. “Hey, the rain isn’t letting up,” he protests, frowning. _Was he planning to run back in this weather?_ “You can’t be serious.”

 

He turns back to meet an intense gaze, and Hyungseob feels like his mind is being read.

He blinks, breaking eye contact, and then it’s over. _What was that about?_

 

Red hair lets out a sigh.

“Yeah, but I still gotta go,” he says, deep voice resignated. “Before the others wake up and notice I’m gone.”

 

Hyungseob furrows his eyebrows, but doesn’t question it. From what little Hyungseob’s heard of his accent, the other boy is evidently from Busan, and Seoul hostel life is weird at best. He also looks to be around his own age, which would mean he’d be at uni, which, in retrospect, would in turn also explain the mid-night cravings. _Ahh._

 

His hand moves to his backpack before he has the chance to really think about it. “Well, at least take my umbrella then.” He can tell that the other’s about to refuse, so he takes one of the boys hands in his own and forcibly shoves the foldable umbrella into it. “I _insist_ ,” he insists. “Just take it. I don’t need it back, if that what you’re worried about.”

 

In hindsight, he probably _does_ need it back, but Hyungseob’s always been pretty stubborn, and right now that stubbornness is aimed at getting the random stranger home relatively dry. Even if the stranger has probably destroyed all his taste buds by eating a steaming cup of ramen in thirty seconds flat. Hyungseob doesn’t judge. Not _too_ much, anyways.

 

It must show on his face, because said stranger is closing long fingers over the umbrella, a muttered _thanks_ just reaching Hyungseob’s ears as the doorbell chimes and the ramen eater disappears into the night.

 

 

 

\-----------------

 

 

 

The next three days has Hyungseob going through the phantom motions of a jump, a little pull in of the arms, the brush of a toe pick along the well worn ice. He starts as his brain catches up to his body, mind wandered off as his body goes through the motions of years ago.

It’s been a little over a month, and he still has no clue why he’s here.

 

Yet every day his body brings him back without fail in a strange habit that he had yet to question. It’s odd, he muses. He thought he’d hated it.

Could he miss it? After all that, was it even possible?

Maybe, but he pushes the thought out of his mind before he can dwell for too long.

 

 

 

The next three days also has him religiously sitting at the same table after his nightly skate sessions (can it be called religiously if it’s only been three days? Well whatever, he’s about to _make_ it religious) with his bottle of water, though today he’s switched it up a little and gotten hot chocolate instead. Not the best thing to be drinking after exercise, but hey. He can do whatever he wants.

 

It’s been three days, and Ramen Boy hasn’t come back.

 

He also grabs a random magazine off a shelf to peruse through while he sips idly at his drink. _Why am I even so fascinated with Ramen Boy anyways?_

 

He definitely zones out after a while, because he stupidly misses the chime of the doorbell this time. It’s only when a hand hesitantly taps at his shoulder does he jerk about a foot into the air, spinning around, and Ramen Boy is there, mask down and sheepish grin on his face. He’s got a snaggletooth, Hyungseob registers, heart going a mile a minute.

 

“Your umbrella,” Ramen Boy says with that deep, Busan accent of his, and Hyungseob’s eyes trail down to where his umbrella is held out from a tanned hand. “Thank you for it, by the way.”

 

“I said you could keep it,” he replies after a second, though he finds himself reaching out for it anyway. It’s kept perfectly, in the meticulous folds he’s always to lazy to do. He looks up to smile his thanks.

 

“Nah, it’s yours,” the other mumbles, and Hyungseob sees the exact moment his eyes catch what Hyungseob’s been reading. Well, trying to, at least. Ramen boy freezes for a millisecond, eyes darting between Hyungseob and the magazine.

 

Hyungseob follows his gaze. It’s an idol group, way too many people squeezed onto one page that Hyungseob doesn’t know where to look. He crinkles his nose.

 

Ramen boy points to the magazine. “Do you like them?” He asks, voice carefully even.

 

Hyungseob looks at the open pages, the group’s name emblazoned in bold letters. _Wanna One? What kinda ridiculous group name is that?_

 

He shakes his head a little. “No, I don’t…” he flips the page, and it’s still the same group. He smiles a little sheepishly. “I don’t really follow kpop at all,” he admits. “I’m just passing the time.”

 

“Ah,” the other says, and there is something in his voice that wasn’t there before, something that Hyungseob can’t quite name, but it makes his voice lighter, somehow.

 

“Do you?”

 

Ramen Boy shrugs. “I know of them,” he admits. Hyungseob nods in understanding, and then, true to his name, he sees Ramen Boy head straight for the ramen aisle.

 

 

\----------

 

 

“You really shouldn’t make this a habit,” he teases two days later, though he’s smiling. He rests his chin on the back of a hand. “Cup ramen’s like poison, y’know.”

 

Ramen boy snorts, finally comfortable enough to place his cup on Hyungseob’s table. He removes his coat today, hangs it on the empty chair next to him. “Says the one who drinks hot chocolate at four am,” he mutters, though he grins lopsidedly, snaggletooth on full display.

 

Hyungseob brushes off the jab, instead latching onto the smile. He leans forward somewhat eagerly, pleased at the willing interaction. “S’different,” he says flippantly. “And at least I savour it. I’ve already concluded you’re not human, Ramen Boy.”

 

An eyebrow quirks at the nickname. “Ramen Boy?”

 

Hyungseob nods. “It’s fitting,” he exclaims, gesturing to the ramen cup to emphasise his point. “I mean, who goes out of their way to inhale ramen in the middle of the night? Not normal people, that’s for sure.”

 

“What about you?” Ramen Boy counters, without missing a beat. He picks up his chopsticks, mixing the noodles, and steam billows into the air. “Normal people don’t go out of their way to drink hot chocolate at this hour either. Don’t you have school in the morning?”

 

Hyungseob picks his cup up, staring into the brown liquid. “Don’t you?”

 

The boy slurps up his first bite of ramen, though clever eyes haven’t missed the deflection. He doesn’t push it, which Hyungseob is grateful for. “I’m taking a break before uni,” he says around his third bite, and when Hyungseob tilts his head in mild confusion, he continues. “To I decide which course I wanna pursue.”

 

Hyungseob hides behind his cup. _Taking a break, huh._

 

“Same,” he says, though the word comes out stilted, and the other _definitely_ notices it this time.

So on a whim, Hyungseob thinks, _why the hell not?_

 

“Hey, wanna know a secret?” he asks, before he really has the time to think about what he’s saying.

 

Ramen Boy looks up from his ramen, but Hyungseob doesn’t give him time to reply before he starts speaking again. “I’m already _retired,”_ he laughs, eyes glinting. He puts a finger to his lips, still grinning. “Don’t let my parents know, though.”

 

The other merely rolls his eyes, turning back to his ramen, and Hyungseob downs the rest of his hot chocolate in one gulp.

 

 

\---------------

 

 

It’s early March, and Hyungseob still isn’t jumping.

 

In other news, he thinks Euiwoong’s come to expect him at the store now, because one day he comes in early just in time to hear an iPhone alarm ring and the boy jerk up from where he’s fast asleep at the counter.

 

“You’re early,” the boy groans after registering his presense, hands rubbing away sleep from his eyes before picking up his glasses.

 

“You’re working,” Hyungseob shoots back, though without malice. He smiles as Euiwoong already begins making his hot chocolate. “When do you properly sleep, anyway?”

 

“I find time,” the boy shrugs, answer practiced. While he waits for the water to boil, he grabs a lone magazine off the counter and holds it out to Hyungseob. “For you,” he says, nodding to it. “It’s on the house.”

 

It’s a kpop magazine. Hyungseob bites his lip. “I don’t really follow kpop,” he smiles sheepishly. “Thanks though.”

 

“I _know_ ,” the other says with an eye roll, and Hyungseob feels rather offended at the certainty behind that statement. Euiwoong holds the magazine out insistently. “I said it’s free, just take it.”

 

So Hyungseob takes it, along with his hot chocolate. “Okay. Thanks, I guess.”

 

Again it’s that same group on the cover, and again, too many faces to count. What was with that group anyway? He brings it over to his table, flipping listlessly for a while, not really seeing, before he stuffs it into his bag.

 

He checks the time and frowns. _Is he not coming today?_

 

A seed of disappointment planting itself in his gut, Hyungseob dons his coat and gets up to leave at half past four.

 

“Try to get some sleep, okay?” He calls to Euiwoong on his way out, and receives a wry smile in return.

 

 

—

 

Four thirty am in wintertime is likely the quietest it can get in the entire year, and it holds true as Hyungseob trudges down the deserted street, stuffing his hands in his pockets and burying his nose in his scarf. He exhales slowly, and the breath of warm air curls round his neck. He closes his eyes, slowing his steps, shoes crunching loudly in the frozen gravel and skates heavy on his back, and behind the safety of his eyelids, it’s just him and his thoughts.

 

 _I’m retired_ , he’d said.

 

 _Retirement_ was a strong word, and Hyungseob knows it better than most. He’d spoken it with relish back in the store, the word empowering him, finally giving him control over something that was never his to decide. Because he _knows_ his coaches are still waiting for him at the rink, should he ever decide to come back.

 

But at the same time, it hadn’t felt _right_. Deep down, something in his body rejected the phrase, his gut twisting at the words.

 

_But why?_

 

His feet slow to a stop on the sidewalk, eyes squeezed shut. He feels like something frozen’s lodged itself in his chest.

But it’s not a sudden feeling; it’s like it’s been there this whole time, and he’s only realised the full discomfort of it now. He takes in a deep breath, feeling the cold air freeze his lungs, and for the first time in a long while, he thinks.

 

-

_Why’d I even start skating in the first place?_

He knows this much. _I wanted to be beautiful, too._

But he also knows, as the years went on, as he’d started to fall in love with the sport, it’d become something bigger. Something grander, a bubble that’d grown to not only encompass him, but others too. His coaches. His family. Their expectations. Their hopes. _I didn’t want to disappoint them._

 

But more than that, past the increasing pressure and stiffening competition presented to him, skating had given something to him. A goal to work for, an earnest drive to improve. A warm, genuine love that countered the cold, something he hadn’t felt in years.

 

He aches to feel something again.

-

 

 

Footsteps that aren’t his echo in the silence, and Hyungseob’s eyes snap open. A dark, hooded figure is walking in his direction, and somehow, even at this distance, he knows who it is.

 

“You’re late,” he greets first, voice barely shaking, as soon as he’s within earshot.

 

Ramen Boy frowns, coming to a stop just in front of him. The orange hue of the streetlamps wash over his form as his eyebrows furrow in worry.

“You’re crying,” is his soft response, and Hyungseob raises a numb hand to his face. He is. He opens his mouth to speak, but his voice catches in his throat. So he closes it, shakes his head and tries for a smile instead. He hopes it looks convincing.

 

It probably doesn’t, because the look of worry hasn’t left the other’s face, and a large hand is reaching up to gently brush away his tears. “What’s wrong?”

 

Hyungseob doesn’t know what to say, wide, teary eyes blinking across at the other’s face, hidden by a mask but still impossibly close. He settles for a helpless shrug. “Missed you?” He tries, but the halfhearted joke fails miserably when his voice cracks in the middle of it, and he winces.

Ramen Boy clearly doesn’t buy it, frown deepening, but he doesn’t push it. His hand lowers itself from Hyungseob’s face, and they lapse into silence, streetlights flickering weakly above them, cold turning noses and ears red.

 

 

This time, the other is first to break the silence. “Let’s go to the park,” he suggests. It’s a little stilted, a little awkward, but Hyungseob appreciates the initiative.

 

They find a little street bench to sit on, butts cold and knees touching, and they share a hot pack Ramen Boy keeps in his pocket between them. He doesn’t offer any conversation like he usually does, and Ramen Boy doesn’t ask questions. And in the big, quiet winter night, it’s like they’re in another world, a new bubble where no one can find them. It feels nice.

 

 

It’s only after he’s returned home, warm under layers of duvets, that he realises Ramen Boy didn’t eat his ramen that day.

 

 

 

\--------------

 

 

 

They don’t mention that night ever again, even after weeks pass and the four am store meet ups become something of a nightly routine. If he tries hard enough, maybe he’d be able to forget it ever happened.

 

And if Euiwoong notices the two of them leaving the store together every day, he doesn’t mention it.

 

 

Hyungseob likes to think they’ve made the park bench theirs, well worn from it’s long, nightly uses. They never mention the first night, but their conversations have moved on to other things, to better things, to anything and everything.

 

Tonight, Hyungseob looks across the street, to where the Christmas markets used to be, and remembers a random thought from a long time ago.

 

“You know,” he starts, and the other turns to look at him. “If a firework – a _huge_ firework _,_ went off right here, right now, and nobody saw it, wouldn’t it have been as if it never existed at all?” He licks his lips, turning back to the other. He waves his hands to mimic an explosion. “Even though it was _huge_ ,” he says with feeling, pursing his lips. “And beautiful, too. I mean, isn’t that kinda sad?”

 

Ramen Boy meets his eyes. “But we’d have seen it,” he says, behind his mask. “Because we’re here.”

 

Hyungseob turns away, to look back at the streets. Then he looks up, tries to find a nice spot for a big firework. There are too many.

 

“But we’re only two people in the whole wide world,” he murmurs. Staring up into the night sky, he suddenly feels very, very small.

 

“But two people are more than enough to know how bright it shone,” comes the reply, and Hyungseob is surprised at how confident the other sounds. He looks, and there is a determination in Ramen Boy’s eyes as he stares out into the Seoul sky. Hyungseob thinks it looks beautiful. “Even if there were none, it was still here. And it was still dazzling. And, well, that’s just too bad for the people that missed it.”

 

Hyungseob is left to ponder this in the silence that follows. _Dazzling, huh._

He smiles, and the frozen rod in his chest thaws, just a little.

 

 

“Alright then. I’m a firework,” he declares into the night.

 

He says it out of the blue, and Ramen boy laughs behind his mask. Hyungseob wishes he’d take it off, just so he could see his snaggletooth.

 

 

 

\-----------------

 

 

It’s mid March, and the rink is slowly starting to turn to slush as the weather becomes warmer, but Hyungseob won’t leave till they take it down. He’s also attempted a grand total of five half-jumps, which he considers an incredible accomplishment, before the first article comes out.

 

 _Wanna One’s Park Woojin spotted having midnight walk with non-celebrity Friend,_ the title reads, and normally Hyungseob wouldn’t care, but he scrolls down, and the grainy photo under it has _him_ in it.

 

Him, and Ramen Boy.

 

Hyungseob takes a whole five seconds to understand, eyebrows shooting up and mouth forming an o when he does.

 

But Wanna One? _Wanna One?_ Why does that name sound so familiar?

 

He is mouthing the name, over and over, until he remembers, and when he does, he dives for the forgotten magazine, chucked away under some books.

 

He squints at the faces he hadn’t bothered scrutinising before, and sure enough, he’s there, squished in between two other members and grinning at the camera, snaggletooth on full display. Hyungseob gapes at it, and it clicks.

 

Suddenly, Euiwoong’s words from months ago make sense. He’d _known,_ and it was painfully clear that Hyungseob hadn’t. This whole time, it’d been right there, and Hyungseob hadn’t the faintest clue. Wow, he’s stupider than he thought.

 

He has half a mind to run straight to the store, but the sun’s out, and he doubts it’s Euiwoong’s shift. So he settles for sitting back in his desk chair, equal parts horrified and amazed. He doesn’t know much about celebrities, but he knows that their careers are fragile, and he hopes Ramen Boy’s is alright. He can’t even contact him to apologise.

 

He looks back at his phone screen. _Park Woojin_.

 

“Woojin,” he tries, testing the syllables on his tongue.

 

 _So that’s your name._ Strangely enough, it’d never come up.

 

 

\-----------------

 

 

Hyungseob still skates in secret, though it feels weird not to go to the store after.

 

Also, the news never gets blown too out of proportion, which he’s grateful for. He follows it a lot more closely now, starts reading up on this _Wanna One_ group, and honestly, they’re quite impressive. And Ramen Boy… Ramen Boy was _world famous_ , how had he not known? He feels way more than just a little floored at this point.

 

 _Its just for the time being_ , he tells himself, _till it dies down completely_. Though he has no clue how long _time being_ will be.

 

 

\------------------

 

 

 

It apparently morphs itself into an eternity, because of course, life has other plans for him.

 

It takes exactly five days for someone on the internet to realise that _Park Woojin’s Friend_ is in fact _Ahn Hyungseob,_ two-time Figure Skating World Junior Champion, promising Olympic hopeful (Well. Hyungseob hadn’t known _that_ part) and unable to make his senior debut because of an injury. Also currently in rehab for four years and counting.

 

Hyungseob doesn’t know who had actually managed to recognise him, nor why people had even bothered with getting this information at all, but then again he can’t say that he’s particularly surprised, because he’s done five days worth of research on Ramen Boy’s group and their fans are crazy _dedicated_. Scarily so.

 

So he looks past that for now and re reads the little blurb about him, and apart from the fact that it’s mortifying (impressive too, but more so mortifying) that they’d managed to find this out in the first place, Hyungseob chooses to lament about how it would’ve been just fine if they’d left the second part out.

 

He’d never thought of himself as remotely famous. Notwithstanding fans of the sport itself, but even then, Juniors was always kinda overshadowed by all the glitz and glam of Seniors.

 

So it’s understandably fascinating when suddenly, all his old videos are coming up on search engines, his medals being recognised years after they’ve been won, the real things probably collecting dust in a corner somewhere. Overnight, suddenly everyone wants to know who he is. It’s unreal, and Hyungseob pinches himself till his arms are as red as his ears.

 

He scrolls through the comments, and everyone’s gushing over their friendship, over how _Of course_ _our Woojinie would have such perfect friends_ and _They’re such ship goals_ (Hyungseob doesn’t get that one. What do ships, of all things, have to do with anything?) and there are even a few comments on Hyungseob himself, saying he has the looks of a celebrity too.

 

Well, he’s definitely _flattered_ , but at the same time, he feels all sorts of uncomfortable. Like this, he’s pretty much riding off of someone else’s fame, no matter how unasked for it was.

And it’s nice to be recognised for his achievements, but he’s quit competitive skating. Taking a break. On indefinite hiatus. Pretty much retired. ( _Also. Rehab for four years? Who’d even believe that without question? These people needed some sense knocked into their brains._ )

 

So when he reaches the comments asking him where he went, asking him to hurry and return, he promptly closes all windows and dumps his phone on his bed.

 

 

 

\---------------

 

 

 

“Hyungseob Hyung,” comes the greeting, as he pushes the door to the convenience store open. Euiwoong is there, a hand lifted in greeting, face looking considerably less tired at four pm than it does at four am. “Long time no see.”

 

Hyungseob does a double take. “How long is your shift even?” He gapes, the fact that the cashier addressed him by name completely flying over his head. “I swear this is illegal.”

 

Euiwoong laughs good-naturedly. “Nah, my family owns this store,” he explains, and Hyungseob blinks. “So I just man the cashier whenever I can.” He raises his eyebrows. “The usual, I’m assuming?”

 

“But,” Hyungseob frowns, “when do you _sleep?”_

“I told you, I find time,” the cashier says with a touch of finality, already turning to prepare a hot chocolate. He’s definitely brighter at this time of day, a little spring in his step and humming a tune as he grabs a coffee cup. The smaller boy can’t hold a note to save his life, though Hyungseob doesn’t comment, because he himself can’t be much better. Still frowning, he busies himself with his phone as he waits for his drink.

 

 

“Woojin Hyung’s been waiting, you know.”

 

Hyungseob’s eyes snap up. Euiwoong’s back is to him. “Huh?”

 

He hears a soft chuckle. “Woojin Hyung,” the other repeats, and Hyungseob’s heart skips at the name. His gaze follows Euiwoong’s hand as he spoons cocoa powder into his cup. “He’s still been coming. But you haven’t.” He stirs the mixture. “I think he’s a little disappointed.”

 

Hyungseob’s eyes widen in surprise. _He’s still been coming? Even after the article came out?_

His expression quickly morphs into a frown.

 

“Isn’t he worried about the paparazzi?” He worries, bottom lip in between his teeth, and Euiwoong turns, hot chocolate in hand.

 

“Oh, so _now_ you know,” he cracks a smile, bemused.

“And to answer your question, they’d only seen you two at the park,” he hands Hyungseob the cup and refusing the money when the older boy tries to hand it to him, “so I don’t think they’ve discovered this place just yet. You’re still good here.”

 

Hyungseob pouts, but pockets the change, turning to leave. Hand on the handle, he speaks over his shoulder. “You knew who he was the whole time.”

 

“I’m more surprised that you _didn’t,_ Hyung _,”_ the bespectacled boy snorts almost incredulously, without missing a beat. He crosses his arms. “Everyone and their mom knows Wanna One.”

 

Hyungseob snorts as he pushes open the door, bell tinkling. “That example bears no weight whatsoever cuz _I_ didn’t,” he pauses to blow over his drink, “and I’m pretty sure my mom doesn’t, either.” He sticks out his tongue. “So there.”

 

He only receives an eye roll in return. “I’ll see you later, Hyung.”

 

 

 

\-----------------

 

 

 

Skates heavy on his back, Hyungseob pushes the glass door open when it clearly says _pull_ , and the chime of a familiar bell reaches his ears.

 

His hot chocolate is steaming on the counter, already made, and Euiwoong’s fast asleep, head resting on his arms and light snores trailing though the air. Hyungseob smiles softly. _Poor thing_.

 

Gently, he takes his hot chocolate, and digs into his coat pocket for money to leave for the drink.

 

 

“It’s already been paid for,” a voice calls softly from the back of the store, and Hyungseob starts a little, mindful of his cup.

 

Woojin’s peeking his head through the aisles from where he’d previously been hidden from sight, mask and coat off, red hair striking even from what little Hyungseob can see of it. He blinks, flustered, heart quickening.

 

“You’re here,” he murmurs, making his way to the table.

 

Woojin smiles, and it’s a little softer than the ones on magazines, a little happier. It makes Hyungseob’s heart skip a beat. “So are you,” comes the simple reply. An empty ramen cup sits in front of him.

 

Hyungseob sits across him, and neither say anything for a while.

 

 

 

“You didn’t come the past six nights,” Woojin starts, staring determinedly at the table. Hyungseob looks up, and the other’s ears are as red as his hair.

 

He puts his hands around his warm cup. “Sorry,” he lets out in a soft murmur. Then he wonders if that’s enough, and thinks about what to add to that statement, before blurting out an “I was worried.”

 

“Are you talking about that article?” Woojin asks, and Hyungseob nods.

 

“Sorry,” he repeats quickly, squeezing his eyes shut and bowing his head, and he misses the fond look thrown at him. He lifts his head to look cautiously at the other.

 

“It’s not your fault, though,” Woojin tilts his head, and Hyungseob furrows his eyebrows. “I’m the one who said we should go to the park, that first day.”

 

“But still,” Hyungseob tries to argue. “I, uh…” he can feel his cheeks redden with embarrassment. He hates how stilted he is now, around someone he’d already accustomed himself to be comfortable with. “I… didn’t know you were famous,” he admits sheepishly. “I wouldn’t have said okay if I’d known. Are you in trouble?”

 

Woojin smilies crookedly at that, leaning back in his seat. “Meh,” he says flippantly, and Hyungseob blinks. “The hyungs sneak out all the time, though I guess I’m the first to get spotted.

 

“But all’s good since it’s you,” he adds as an afterthought, and Hyungseob furrows his eyebrows in confusion. _What does that mean?_ He’s about to ask, but Woojin continues. “Are _you_ in trouble?”

 

He’s thrown off by the sudden redirection. “Me?” He asks in surprise, and Woojin nods. “Um.” His parents don’t follow celebrity news much, though his coaches just _might_ be internet savvy enough to come across it in a few days. Knowing them, they’d be in contact for sure.

And he’d been so good at avoiding them too. He frowns at the thought.

“Well, not _trouble_ , per se,” he says slowly. He scratches a temple. “But. I dunno. I think things may become a bit trouble _some_.”

 

Woojin furrows his eyebrows. “How so?”

 

Hyungseob purses his lips, thinking of what to say. Of how much to say. He takes a big gulp of his drink to buy time, liquid somewhat cooled but still hot enough to sting at his throat. He winces as it goes down. “My coaches will probably want me to come back.”

 

There is a tiny pause.

 

“Your skating coaches,” the idol realises. His expression turns careful as Hyungseob voluntarily broaches the topic.

 

He owes the other at least this much. “Yeah, them.” He tries really hard to keep his voice from wavering. “It’ll be fine, though,” he waves a hand, injecting nonchalance into his tone. “It’ll blow over soon enough.”

 

Woojin doesn’t look placated at that. “Why, though?” He asks, and it’s Hyungseob’s turn to look confused. “It’s the perfect time to get back into it.”

 

He sounds so sincere, and Hyungseob’s heart aches. Of course he would think so. Anyone would think so. If Hyungseob were him, he’d think so too. It was only logical.

The skater’s expression turns pained. “I told you,” he says, and he thinks he’s trying to convince himself. His heart clenches with his words, and he pointedly ignores it. “Remember? I’m retired.”

 

At that, Woojin seems to realise that there’s something a lot deeper to this than simple hearsay, that what he knows is only what everyone has given him. As an idol himself, he’d understood pretty fast, and it shows on his face as it betrays the slightest hint of worry, eyes softening and lips pursing. He doesn’t say anything, waiting for Hyungseob to share what he wants, in his own time.

 

All of that in a millisecond. It’s almost laughable, in retrospect, two boys who’d never have otherwise crossed paths hiding in plain sight, sharing secrets and yet somehow still only slightly less than mere strangers. But in that millesecond, Hyungseob doesn’t feel so alone anymore.

 

So he takes a deep breath, and he speaks.

 

 

 

Slowly, in a voice smaller than he’s used to using with the other, Hyungseob starts from the beginning, telling the idol about his second time winning Junior Worlds.

 

It’d been springtime, four years ago. He’d been ecstatic at his victory, but somehow, understandably even, the title _two-time Olympic medalist_ held a prestige to it that turned heads, that drew gazes, that attracted endless praise from all around. And coupled with the word _retirement_ , it caused a national frenzy that lasted months, headlining newspapers and coming up almost daily on the primetime news. He can still see the titles when he closes his eyes – a bold ‘ _Kim Yuna announces her retirement_ ’ in garish, black letters, words that made his heart stop in his chest. Next to that, winning Juniors seemed deplorably insignificant. A tiny firework of New Years amidst the endless festivals of Christmas.

 

Too young to join Seniors himself, Hyungseob watched helplessly as, bit by bit, his country left figure skating along with their queen. She’d retired, there were no more Koreans in the Senior Circuit, local interest in the sport died down, and that was that.

 

“I wanted to join seniors so bad,” he smiles sadly at the memory. “But my body wasn’t ready for it, and my coaches tried to warn me.” He swirls the rest of his hot chocolate around in his cup. Well, chocolate, now. It has long since gone cold. “But I was ambitious, y’know? I wouldn’t listen.”

 

Woojin takes this all in with a light of wonder in his eyes, and Hyungseob continues.

 

Some skaters are spinners, some are jumpers, and others are dancers. And though all earned decent points, Hyungseob had watched enough skating to know that out of the three, jumping was what ultimately won the competition. In particular, the quad jump, which encompassed _four_ honest-to-god _complete_ rotations in the air before landing cleanly back on the ice as opposed to the usual three. Back then, quad jumpers were pretty rare, but they’d been a threat, and naturally, Hyungseob was determined to master the technique as fast as possible.

 

As a Junior, he’d been banned from training quads at all. His coaches would always say something about his body not being able to handle the stress yet, or pacing, or something along those lines. Hyungseob hadn’t really listened, annoyed at the restraint. He wonders where he’d be now if he had.

 

But the fact was that he hadn’t, and he paid dearly for it.

 

He’d begun to throw away his pride as an all-rounder for jumps alone. He’d stay extra hours at the rink doing jump practice, secretly training quads, ignoring the growing pains in his back and knees. He remembers hiding them as they got worse, pushing through competitions with injuries, the lingering smell of tiger balm clinging to him wherever he went, hanging off him like an aura of doom.

 

How long had he even been like that? He doesn’t know for sure, but it’d seemed like an eternity.

 

“Long story short, my body gave out before the season even started,” Hyungseob shakes his head, anger bubbling to the surface as he clenches his cup with a little more force than necessary. “Just as well, too. I mean, what the _hell_ was I doing? Neglecting artistry for jumps? Throwing away emotion for points?” Disgust curls in his gut. It’s an ugly emotion. “It was _pathetic_ ,” he snorts, and Woojin, across him, purses his lips. “You should’ve seen me. Someone like me doesn’t deserve to be a figure skater. I got injured, left and never went back.”

 

 

He takes a deep breath in an effort to calm himself. It doesn’t work as well as he’d like it to, so he pauses and counts to ten.

 

“I was a firework, Woojin-ah,” he finishes with a bitter smile, shaking his head. It’s the first time either of them have addressed each other by name. “Short and bright. And it’s okay. It’s good, even. Because fireworks are beautiful.”

 

He places his empty cup into Woojin’s ramen one with a muted flourish, actions cool but heart on fire.

 

Wanna One’s Park Woojin is an incredibly good listener. Hyungseob hadn’t read that on any of the group’s fanpages. He watches as dark, fox-like eyes flicker to his own.

 

“You say that,” he finally says, with a quiet confidence in his tone that make Hyungseob want to cling to his every word. “But you’re not happy.”

 

“How would you know?” It’s his default answer. He feels a little affronted at that, but he can’t bring himself to say so when it’s Woojin. It’s so strange.

 

The redhead’s lips quirk up at that. “Because I know you,” comes the simple, almost obvious reply, and it’s a ridiculous thing to say, because they’ve only known each other for maybe a month and a half, never even exchanging _names,_ interactions reduced to midnight conversations at parks and coffee shops and playful nudges and tinkling laughs and smiles with the whole universe in them.

Somehow, Hyungseob doesn’t doubt it one bit.

 

“You’re happy when you talk about fireworks,” he continues, Busan accent thick and hanging from his words. “You’re happy when you gaze into the night sky and count the stars. You’re happy in the silences, when you look at me and your eyes shine.

 

“You’re happy in your videos,” he murmurs, voice low and earnest, and Hyungseob trembles. “But right now, you’re not. And you deserve to be.”

 

Hyungseob takes in a deep breath, head down.

 

“Never pegged you for a psychiatrist,” he jokes to the table, trying to lighten the mood, but his voice cracks at the end, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He feels warm tears slip past anyways, and he grits his teeth. _Why am I crying?_

 

He hears a rustle, and then a scrape of a chair as Woojin comes to sit next to him. A warm hand guides his head to a shoulder, and Hyungseob circles his arms round a sturdy waist as he finally, finally breaks down.

 

 

\----------------

 

 

It’s early April, the rink at the park has been taken down, and Hyungseob finds himself outside his old training centre.

It’s been four years since he was last here, and it was huge four years ago, but it’s still huge now. Maybe huger. In any case, the large building is way more formidable and intimidating than the little recreational rink at the park, and Hyungseob feels vulnerable.

 

Haversack on his back, he takes a deep breath and pushes the creaky door open.

 

 

It’s exactly how he remembers it, an arena of seats surrounding a single, Olympic sized skating rink. Even from this distance, it’s impressive looking; a blinding spotlight amidst the spectators.

It’s Saturday, and there’s an afternoon lesson going on, a dozen little kids fumbling around on the ice as Coach Yumi guides them around some traffic cones. Seeing her, Hyungseob feels a pang of nostalgia in his chest, and he finds a seat far enough away to watch the rest of their lesson.

 

He can hear their laughter from his spot in the stands, their little giggles as they fall on the ice and squeals as they bump into each other, grasping hands and beaming faces.

He watches them, the way he used to be a long time ago, and he aches, memories lapsing into times long past. Into happier times; simpler ones.

 

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t hear it when someone shuffles into the row behind him.

 

“I see you,” an amused voice speaks up, and Hyungseob jumps about a mile high.

 

He spins in his seat, alarmed at having been caught, and he bites his lip when he sees who it is. He dips his head in an awkward greeting. “Hello, uh,” he raises a hand in a tiny wave. “Uh. Coach Seokhoon.”

 

Coach Seokhoon looks at him from behind thin-rimmed spectacles, hair still parted in that fifty-fifty hairstyle from years ago that a young Hyungseob had used to laugh at. The smile wrinkles next to his eyes have become more pronounced, but apart from that that, nothing’s really changed at all.

 

“Hello, Hyungseob,” he returns the greeting, and Hyungseob’s distracted eyes dart past him to the door, calculating his escape options. He wasn’t mentally prepared for this yet. _If I ran away now–_

 

“You just looked at the door, didn’t you?”

 

 _Dammit._ Coach Seokhoon always saw through everything. Hyungseob purses his lips in a pout, and the coach chuckles.

 

“Still the same old kid, I see,” he says, voice fond, devoid of any of the anger or disappointment Hyungseob was expecting instead. He reaches out to ruffle his hair, just like he used to do when Hyungseob was young, and the skater, though confused, lets out a tiny smile. “You’re finally back.”

 

It’s cold in the arena, but something warm spreads in Hyungseob chest. He kind of feels like he’s returned home. Just a little bit, though.

 

 

 

Coach Seokhoon takes him down to the rink after the lesson’s finished, and Coach Yumi greets him with wide, sparkling eyes and a hand to parted lips, followed by a bone-crushing hug that forces the air out of his lungs. Hyungseob can’t breathe, but his heart swells in his chest.

 

“Look how you’ve grown,” she says.

 

She releases him, and her smile is as warm as Hyungseob remembers. He’s taller than her now, he belatedly realises. He wonders when that happened.

 

Coach Yumi nods to his backpack.

 

“Are those your skates?” She asks, and Hyungseob nods wordlessly, a little mystified by this point.

 

“Well, put them on,” she prompts, crossing her arms. “You came to skate, didn’t you?”

Her eyes twinkle knowingly, and Hyungseob’s forgotten how sharp his coaches were. Sharp as their blades, the pair of them were, evidently still. “Let’s see how rusty those joints are.”

 

 

\----------

 

 

The ice is so, so smooth. Hyungseob feels like he’s flying.

 

He looks into the empty stands and imagines them filled with people, imagines the roar of the crowd after a wonderful programme, imagines the rush of adrenaline that courses through his veins. It was a time before, a time long before he’d lost himself, and Hyungseob travels back to that time, to when he’d _perform_ for them, sparkles and energy and joy, and not the time of the mere soulless machine he’d become.

 

 

“Why aren’t you angrier at me?” He asks later, when he’s worked up a sheen of perspiration, when he’s mustered a little more courage. His fingers pick at his gloves, and he looks between proud expressions, to the seats behind them, to the ice beneath their feet, and finally back to their faces. He sounds unsure, as if he doesn’t want to hear the answer. And he’s still nervous asking, but the curiosity has won out. He licks his lips, chapped from the cold. “Weren’t you disappointed when I left? Didn’t you want me to come back sooner?”

 

“Oh Hyungseob,” Coach Yumi says, and she skates closer, places a hand on his shoulder. Her expression softens.

“We wanted it for you so much. More than you know.” She removes her hand and gestures to him. “But more than that,” she tells him, “more than anything, really, you have to want it for yourself.”

 

Coach Seokhoon makes a hum of assent, arms crossed. “That’s why we didn’t chase you to return,” he adds. “We couldn’t. We could see how unhappy you were, you know. We wanted you to come back in your own time.” He shrugs a little. “And it was longer than we’d expected, I’ll admit, but it’s something.”

 

“We’re just glad you’re back.”

 

They’re standing on a thin, vast sheet of solid ice, but something in Hyungseob thaws at their words.

 

“Me too,” he smiles, small but genuine, and it’s the happiest he’s felt in years.

 

 

 

\----------------

 

 

 

“I went back to my old rink,” he reveals that night.

 

Woojin’s face lights up at that. He hadn’t been expecting this, of all things. “And how was it?”

 

Hyungseob thinks. “Easier than I expected,” he admits, but it comes out sounding like a question. “It was strange. Like, I was so scared that my coaches were gonna be so mad at me,” his arms gesture wildly, and his eyes are wide as he recounts the events of the day. “But they _weren’t._ They just said ‘welcome back’, and they let me use the rink. It was just so…” He struggles to find the word. He shakes his head. “It was just so _normal._ Like the past four years didn’t even exist.”

 

Woojin hums, smile still lingering, snaggletooth slipping in and out of sight. “And how was skating again?”

 

Hyungseob thinks.

 

“I missed it,” he realises. “Just skating. Not practicing for anything, not memorizing step sequences, not having to think about what comes next, y’know?” He lets his mind wander back to the rink, to the idle skating he’d done, coaches watching him, basking in the silence only punctuated by the scratch of worn blades on well-kept ice. “It was nice.”

 

“I’m glad.”

 

 

“Thank you, you know.”

 

A blush on tanned skin and a smile, with the whole universe in it.

 

They sit in companionable silence for a while, Euiwoong’s soft snores drifting to them from the counter. The boy’d taken to sleeping whenever they’d come round, preparing their stuff beforehand and placing it on the counter for them to take. It’s an endearing gesture.

 

 

“I want to see you skate.”

 

Hyungseob chokes on his hot chocolate, sputtering, and Woojin hurries out of his seat to pat him on the back. “I’m sorry?”

 

“You heard me.”

The patting stops when the coughing does, and the hand patting his back hesitantly slings across his shoulders instead. Hyungseob turns an unreasonable shade of red.

 

“You’ve seen videos.”

 

“Yeah,” comes the stubborn reply, “but they’re old. Besides, I want to see you skate in person.”

 

He doesn’t know why he’s so adamant about not skating in front of Woojin. “I’m rusty,” he complains. _There’s that._

And. He only wants Woojin to see him at his best. It’s not unreasonable, but it won’t be soon. He cranes his neck to look up at the other. Their faces are so close, Hyungseob can see his reflection in ebony irises. “And you’re busy when I’m at the rink. And if you tried to go when I go, your fangirls would find you. It’s impossible, impossible.”

 

He knows he has a point there, because Woojin frowns unhappily, eyebrows knitting together as he sits himself beside Hyungseob. Hyungseob relaxes into his chest, and the relief lasts all of two seconds before Woojin’s speaking up again.

 

“Okay, but I’ll come to watch your competitions, then,” he promises, and if Hyungseob was drinking anything at that moment, he’d have choked again. “The schedule’s always out really early, right? I’ll make sure I’m free.”

 

_Wait a second. Competitions?_

 

“ _Competitions_?” He echoes, jerking out of the other’s arms to face him. He frowns, unsure. “Woojin-ah,” he says, alarmed. “Sure I’m skating again, but I don’t know about competitions.”

 

“Huh?” Woojin looks confused, as if it wasn’t obvious enough already. “What? Why not?”

 

“I’m just not cut out for them,” he tries, arms starting to flail again in the way he does when he’s nervous. “Besides, I haven’t skated in years. I’d lose for sure.”

 

At that, the idol rolls his eyes incredulously, though the tips of his ears are scarlet as his arm snakes back around Hyungseob’s shoulders, pulling him against him once again. Hyungseob hopes their coats are thick enough for the other not to feel his heart racing in his chest.

 

“Hey, competitions aren’t all about winning, y’know.”

 

Hyungseob blinks, a little giddy. _Huh?_

 

“Or maybe you don’t, since you used to just win all the time,” Woojin adds as an afterthought, “but I’ll tell you now. They’re not.

 

“The group I’m in now… It was formed through a survival programme,” he says, and Hyungseob nods, because he read about it. “A hundred and one boys, for only eleven spots. And I was only one person.”

 

“Produce one oh one,” Hyungseob remembers, and Woojin hums in assent.

 

“When it started, my rank was in the seventies,” he says, and Hyungseob’s eyes widen, because he hadn’t known _that_ part. _From the seventies to the top eleven… that’s incredible._ “I thought many times about giving up, but I decided to stick it through till the end. Because even if you don’t win, there’s still so much to be gained from something like that. Experience. Skill. Perseverance. Friendships.

 

“It’s just,” Woojin pauses, and now it’s the idol’s turn to wave a hand around, trying to grasp the words. “It’s so much more than merely _competition_. There’s the excitement, too.

 

“The firework,” he expresses, nudging Hyungseob with his side, and Hyungseob bites his lower lip.

 

“That’s incredible,” he says out loud, “but I really don’t know, Woojin-ah.” He purses his lips. He doesn’t have the heart to say no. “I’ll think about it.”

 

 

\-------------

 

 

It’s not even mid April when he makes up his mind.

 

“I want to debut in Seniors next season.”

 

The response is pretty much as he expected – Coach Seokhoon does a double take from where he’s undoing his laces at the bench, and Coach Yumi’s eyebrows raise to her hairline, lips parted in surprise.

 

Hyungseob’s jaw is set, his face a mask of determination, and he watches their faces as his coaches exchange glances, before looking to him, and realising that they haven’t misheard.

 

Coach Yumi is first to recover, eyebrows settling into a slight furrow. She steps off the ice slowly, turning to him as she rests her hands on the boards. He can see her piercing eyes as she searches his face, and he thinks that there’s a tiny spark in them that wasn’t there before, but he can’t be sure. “Seniors?” she asks, and he nods. “What brought this on, Hyungseob?”

 

He hesitates a little, wondering how to put the emotions he’d been feeling for weeks into words. “I miss it,” he eventually decides on, because it’s simple and true. But then he feels frustrated, because it doesn’t encompass just _how much_ he misses it, which he’s come to realise during the past few weeks of brooding, is actually quite a lot.

 

Coach Seokhoon abandons his half untied boot in favour of leaning his hands on the bench behind him. Hyungseob turns to him, and there is a look on his face, a quiet, half smile, that’s barely there but yet so brilliant, so _proud_ , that Hyungseob has to swallow back tears.

 

“I was wondering when you’d ask,” he says, and Hyungseob closes his eyes as his heart unclenches.

 

“This is wonderful news, Hyungseob,” Coach Yumi’s voice continues from the side, and there is a smile to her features as well, when he looks. But her expression, though happy, is a little pinched, a little concerned. “But are you absolutely sure about this? Your body can likely take the training now, but we still don’t want a repeat of what happened last time.”

 

He knows exactly what she’s talking about. But strangely, the repulsive fear of the memory has dulled, doesn’t stab at his gut anymore. In its place, a fox-like gaze fills his mind. Striking red hair, a snaggletooth, the smell of instant ramen. He smiles.

 

“It doesn’t matter whether I win or lose,” he says, and his coaches’ eyebrows shoot up to their hairlines for the second time. For good reason too, because it’s a sentence Hyungseob never ever dreamed would come out from his own mouth. It feels foreign. “I just want to take part. I mean, there’s so much to be gained from Seniors.”

 

There is a pause whereby his coaches struggle to digest this new information. He can tell it’s a struggle just by watching them – he’d been a champion once, after all, and coaches will be coaches.

 

The silence ends with a good natured laugh from Coach Seokhoon.

 

“It’s been so long, I’d forgotten you’d grown up,” he shakes his head. He tilts his head, crooked smile in place. “Of course that’s not _untrue_. Win or lose, everyone comes out wiser.” As if proving a point, wise eyes meet Hyungseob’s own, and there is a proud gleam in them that he recognises from years ago. “But,” He shifts his weight onto one hand, raising his free one to rest on Hyungseob’s shoulder. “Never be scared of aiming high. You may have taken a break, but don’t discredit your talent, kiddo.”

 

Coach Yumi nods along in agreement, walking over to sit on the bench too. Her gaze is fond as she smiles at him. “You had a drive like I’d never seen, Hyungseob.”

Normally, that statement would have made Hyungseob recoil. _Drive_ was what had started it, after all. But after nights of talking to Woojin about it, he’s slowly starting to think of it as an admirable trait. He nods wordlessly, though his coaches know him well enough to see the gratefulness reflected in shiny eyes.

 

“Yeah,” he finally manages, and his lips pull into a smile.

 

 

\-----------

 

 

Its May, and the leaves when he walks to the rink are impossibly green. Hyungseob’s just landed a double toe loop. It’s slow, but it’s progress, and Coach Yumi beams.

 

His mom comes to watch practice one day, as training hours start to increase, and she brings him a packed lunch, just like she used to. Face softening, Hyungseob takes the lunchbox, wiping perspiration from his forehead.

 

Two rolls of kimbap instead of one like before. He cracks a grin, picking up his chopsticks. His mom sits down next to him, watching him eat.

 

“You’re working so hard,” she comments with a parent’s pride, and the words are lightly said, delicate in the way moms like to be, but Hyungseob still hears the worry in her voice. Even guilt, if he tries, but that’s probably him overthinking things. He doesn’t want her to feel guilty.

 

“I’m just trying things out, y’know?” He shrugs, popping another piece into his mouth. He glances over, trying to gauge her reaction. “I mean, it’s not easy,” he mumbles through his food, “of course it’s not. And it might work, it might not, but I’m doing what I can.”

 

And then his mom turns to look at him with those eyes of hers, those undeniably _mom_ eyes that are kind and comforting yet somehow manage to pick you apart piece by piece at the same time, and Hyungseob huffs.

 

“Don’t worry, okay?” He tries to make his voice sound as confident as possible. “The coaches told you, right? I don’t qualify for the Grand Prix series, so I can’t compete till January anyway. I’ve got more than half a year to get my act together. It’s way more than I used to have.”

 

His mom shakes her head at that. “I know that,” she tells him. “I just don’t want a repeat of last time. You never knew how to take care of yourself.”

 

“I know mom, I was stupid. But _now_ I know better.”

 

“I know you do,”she replies, but it feels like she’s pacifying him. “I’m just reminding you. I gave you those skates for Christmas, because _skating_ is what made you happy.” Hyungseob nods, filling his mouth as he listens to her go on. “Not competing, not even winning. Those are all secondary.

 

“And I’m happy when you’re happy, alright?”

Hyungseob rolls his eyes for show, though his heart swells. He thinks back to last Christmas, to the smell of new skates, to pounding hearts and thick coats and rough ice. He coughs to fight back a smile.

 

“I know.”

 

 

————

 

 

Things kind of blur together after a while, schedule becoming routine and training becoming more intense day by day. And before he knows it, the leaves begin to fall and the season‘s started.

 

Woojin’s visits to the store become less frequent as his schedule builds to alarming levels, though Hyungseob’s remain remarkably constant through force of habit, and perhaps something more that he refuses to dabble on. In any case, one night Woojin does arrive as Hyungseob nurses his drink, brown hair a mess and dark circles prominent without makeup to cover them. And Hyungseob’s been monitoring the group, has seen how they’re being wrung dry for all their worth, and he’s noticed how exhausted they seem on screen, but nothing could prepare him for how positively _wretched_ Woojin looks as he shuffles through the door, bell chiming and hands shoved deep into jean pockets.

 

“You shouldn’t have come,” he gasps lightly as he stands sharply, already tugging Woojin by the elbow and into a seat. He brushes a light brown fringe out of hooded eyes, worried frown marring delicate features. “Are you crazy? You look like a dead man walking.”

 

Woojin removes his mask, revealing a tired smile. “Feel like one too,” he grunts admittedly, eyes closing for a brief second as he tilts his head back. Dark eyes reopen to search Hyungseob’s face. “But we leave for the tour tomorrow,” he reveals, and Hyungseob’s mouth opens in realisation. He’d known, but he’d been so occupied with training, the days had passed without thought. “Won’t be back for a couple months. So I had to come tonight.”

 

Hyungseob purses his lips, before smiling a small, fond smile. _Couple of months, huh._ “You’re such an idiot.”

 

But even as he says it, he brings Woojin’s head down to rest on his shoulder, and the other boy lets out a grateful hum.

They’ve been flickering through his mind at times, these small but frequent interactions that teeter the border between friends and something more. And when they do, he doesn’t know quite what to call them, nor does he quite know what to make of it all, never choosing to ponder for too long, but what he _is_ certain of is that Woojin is a safe place, a warm, clandestine constant that gives him strength and makes him happy.

 _And I want to make him happy too_ , he realises, as his long, pale fingers slowly start to card through Woojin’s hair.

 

“How’s training going?” The tired voice asks, breaking him from his thoughts.

 

Hyungseob hums. “It’s going,” he says vaguely, and Woojin huffs. Hyungseob can’t see his expression. He chuckles. “It’s going great,” he supplements, and Woojin seems to be a bit more pacified at that.

“I’ll start competing in January,” he reveals, and there’s a sudden shift as Woojin registers his words. “At the Korean Nationals. It’s the qualifier for the World Championships in March,” he explains. He fiddles a little with a strand of Woojin’s hair. “If I’m good enough at Nationals, I’ll qualify for Worlds, though I’m honestly not expecting much.”

 

“The World Championships,” Woojin echoes after him. He shakes his head against his shoulder, hair tickling the skater’s neck. “You’re amazing.”

 

“Hey,” Hyungseob laughs, nudging the other lightly with his own head. “Says you, of all people.”

 

They both let the silence stretch on, enjoying each other’s presence.

 

“I couldn’t have done it without you, you know?” Hyungseob smiles, a passing afterthought. “I mean. This sounds so cheesy, but I really mean it. So thank you.”

 

 

Woojin lifts his head to look at him, eyes tired but clear, earnestness and determination standing behind a sheen of fatigue. His eyes move slowly, as if memorizing the map of his face, and Hyungseob unknowingly finds himself doing the same thing.

 

“My schedule’s up in the air after we return from the tour,” the idol exhales softly, the corners of his lips turning down. “I don’t know what I’ll be doing or where I’ll be.

 

“But I promise to come to a competition,” he says, a little louder, as if to impress the memory of the statement into both their minds. For a moment, the fatigue in his eyes are gone. “And when I see you then, I’ll have something to tell you, Hyungseob-ah.”

 

It’s the first time Woojin’s uttered his name, and he likes the way the deep, husky tone wraps around the syllables. He smiles, cheeks flushing pink.

 

“Okay,” he says without missing a beat. “It’s a promise.”

 

—————

 

 

September rolls around, and Hyungseob follows the Grand Prix series for the first time in years.

 

Of course, the names are different, new faces atop the podiums, but surprisingly not as unfamiliar as they could’ve been. He recognizes the medalists, the two Chinese boys who’d competed in juniors with him, and the young Hispanic prodigy who represented America. They’d all been rivals, he remembers, but also friends, in a weird sort of way. It’s a little strange, to see the scrawny Zhengting all lean and filled out, and the tiny Justin from his memories now towering over everyone else in height.

 

And sure, he’d known them back then. He’d known that Justin’s dynamics were top notch but a little too unpredictable at times, known that Zhengting’s Biellmans were out of this world but his strength still needed a bit of work. But that was all in the past, because nothing could have prepared him for how they were now.

 

They’re incredible. Dazzling. Impeccable spins, jumps that landed without as much as a wobble on the ice. They’d always been driven, it was something that ran in their bones, but they were polished, flaws from years ago reduced to almost nothing, skating with a maturity that only came with age.

 

After quitting, Hyungseob realises he’d never stopped to think about the progress of the others, never stopped to think that the kids he’d exchanged bright smiles and fist bumps of encouragement with were now the best in the world, at the peak of their craft. The craft that he should’ve been honing alongside them.

 

 _I’ve been left behind, huh_ , he realises. He hits pause on the video of the men’s medal ceremony and closes the tab on his browser. _Well, I mean. It’s to be expected._

 

_That’s the level I’ve got to be at if I stand a chance against them._

 

 

But Hyungseob had been a competitor once. And a little weird to look back on, but a champion, even. Seeing them had sent a rush of adrenaline humming in his system.

 

Suddenly, Hyungseob feels a fire light beneath him. He wants to be up there too. Up there, on the podium.

 

 _The highest step_ , his younger self insists. _Go for the gold!_

 

Hyungseob grins, nervous energy thrumming through his veins.

 

_This is the world stage._

 

 

————————————

————————————

 

 

It’d been exactly a year since he’d returned to skating, and Hyungseob was at his first competition since.

 

He looks around, wide eyed. The stadium is huge, countless seats going up and up, and the dome so far above him, lights blinding. The judge’s table stands just to the side, in all its glory, though Hyungseob had never been intimidated by the panel. Not then, and not now.

What captivated him had always been the ice, and he looks to it now in awe, vast and perfectly pristine. It’s calling his name, the way it’s always been.

_I’m at Senior Nationals,_ he tells himself. He pinches his own arm and it stings, but it still doesn't feel real.

 

Woojin wouldn't be coming, he knew, because the idol was on tour with his group again. The other boy wasn't permitted a phone, which was the most stupid thing Hyungseob’d ever heard, so they weren’t able to stay in contact. But in the midst of his rigorous schedule, Hyungseob kept himself updated enough to know that Woojin wouldn’t be back till late February. He remembers Woojin’s tired face the last time he saw him, and hopes he’s taking care of himself properly.

 

 

He feels a hand clamp onto his shoulder, and he looks up to see Coach Seokhoon standing with a crooked smile on his face.

 

“I mean, I’d ask if you were ready,” his Coach begins, chuckling a little, “but you've been training like a madman. Believe it or not, you’re actually in the best form I’ve ever seen you in.”

 

Hyungseob grins. It was true. Over the past few months, he’d been eating, sleeping and breathing skating, to the point that his mother had been worried he’d relapsed into his past mentality. And he was still driven, but he was smarter now, and he had something to compete for.

 

 _I’ll make it to Worlds,_ he promises, looking into the empty stands. _So you just focus on your tour for now._

 

“I’ve never felt better,” he says truthfully. “And it sounds crazy, but I think…” Korea, as far as he knows, is slightly behind in terms of churning out Olympic level skaters. It’s Worlds that was the scary one. “I think I could even medal here.”

 

Coach Yumi appears on his other side. “Hyungseob,” she looks at him, and her eyes are sparkling. “I _know_ you can medal here.”

 

 

—————

 

 

His senses are on overdrive the minute he steps onto the ice.

 

The stadium is packed. The crowd is deafening, the ice is sparkling, and the wind whips against his face as he starts his rounds on the rink. The announcer is reading out the scores for the previous skater, but he tunes it all out, instead focusing on his edges, finding his placement, little habits that were ingrained into his body that not even years of inactivity could erase.

 

He stops by the edge of the rink, where his coaches are waiting.

 

“Don’t overthink the jumps,” Coach Yumi reminds him. “And the rest is already there.”

 

Hyungseob takes a deep breath. “Yep.”

 

Coack Seokhoon nods. “You got this, kid,” the corner of his lips pull up, eyes crinkling when he grins. Then lifts his hands in a shooing motion. “Now go out there and enjoy yourself.”

 

Hyungseob exhales slowly, closing his eyes. And the moment they call his name, the cheers increase tenfold, and he pushes off the boards.

 

 

If someone were to ask him later how he did, how he’d managed to still skate so effortlessly and brilliantly after such a long break, he honestly wouldn’t have been able to answer them, because he wouldn’t remember any of it. All he feels as he dances across the ice is fours years’ worth of pent up adrenaline gushing forth in a tremendous wave of blinding brilliance, a single drop of ink in a beaker of clear water, a dazzling firework in a midnight sky.

For three short minutes, he is free.

 

The music disappears as he throws his hands to the sky, face tilted upwards, breaths deep, but heart as light as a feather in his chest. He’s standing on ice, but he feels so warm. Hyungseob closes his eyes, and the applause starts.

Why had he ever wanted to leave?

 

He stays like that for a while, taking it all in, and when his breaths calm, he allows himself to look.

 

The crowd is on their feet. Flowers are raining down onto the ice, and his face is wet with tears. His lips part in unabashed awe, and slowly, he takes his first bow.

 

_I’m back._

 

 

 

——————————

——————————

 

 

 _Wanna One successfully wraps up their world tour with extended concerts in 4 countries_ , the headline reads. Hyungseob hadn’t been keeping up as much as he’d liked to, so he hadn’t known that they’d extended their tour. He scrolls down. Their last concert was just yesterday. Sighing, he locks his phone and lays it face down onto the table.

 

“Hyungseobbie.”

 

He whirls around at the unfamiliar voice. Who’d randomly come visit his changing room minutes before the competition?

 

His eyes widen. Zhengting and Justin stand at the door, hesitant smiles on faces and shimmering costumes beneath matching China representative uniform jackets. Justin’s hand is raised in a small, awkward wave.

 

Hyungseob shoots out of his chair, surprised. It was so strange to see them in the flesh again. They’re both taller than he anticipated.

He doesn’t really know how to react. His mouth opens and closes a few times, before he remembers himself and quickly drops into a bow. “Hello.”

 

And then hands move to quickly bring him up. “No no no,” Zhengting is saying. Beside him, Justin is flailing his hands. “No bow! We’re friends.”

 

That somehow dissolve any tension that was in the room, and Hyungseob laughs. “Oh, okay, okay! Friends,” he smiles, before pausing. “Wait, you speak Korean?”

 

“A little bit,” he replies, holding up a thumb and index finger to show just how little it was. “Justin too. We learn…” He brings a finger between him and the other boy, trying to find the word. “… together. We learn together.”

 

Next to him, Justin nods vigorously. “Congratulations on your gold medal at Korean Nationals,” he says, heavily accented but otherwise perfect. Hyungseob is thoroughly floored.

 

“Ah, thank you, thank you,” he smiles despite himself. “Congratulations on the Grand Prix, both of you.

 

“Your Korean is amazing,” he adds, because it is.

 

They beam. “We learn for you,” Justin says proudly, and Hyungseob blinks.

 

“For me?”

 

Zhengting nods in confirmation. “We know you come back one day,” he lights up. “We wait and believe!”

 

“Everybody wait,” Justin adds, and Hyungseob feels his heart clench a little. “Samuel too.”

 

“Samuel?” _Samuel the prodigy kid_ , his brain supplies. _Ah_.

 

“Samuel look at you,” Zhengting says solemly, gesturing to him, and Justin frowns. The two boys have a little speedy exchange in Chinese, and Zhengting seems to realise something. “Ah,” he amends. “Samuel look _up_ to you. Since last time.” He seems pleased at having delivered his message.

 

Hyungseob flushes, pleased and a little embarrassed. He never considered that anyone’d look up to him. Thinking about it now, it _does_ makes sense.

 

“Well, I’m back,” he says, and they smile.

 

 

—————

 

He makes a couple of misses in the short program, but overall he thinks he did alright. He’s in fourth place, which isn’t shabby at all, all things considered.

 

“I can leave my stuff in the dressing room for the free tomorrow, right?” He asks, and receives an affirmative. He waves goodbye to the Chinese boys, and even gets to speak to Samuel, who must be a genius because his Korean skills are exemplary.

 

“All the best for tomorrow,” Samuel beams as he leaves, and Hyungseob grins in return with a thumbs up.

 

“You too!”

 

 

—————

 

 

He goes to the convenience store that night for the first time in a long while. It’s not nearly as late as he used to, because he’s got to compete the next day, but Worlds is held in Seoul this year, and Hyungseob feels like taking advantage of that fact. It feels almost exactly the same when the bell chimes and Euiwoong looks up from the cashier.

 

It’s not exactly the same when his jaw drops. “Hyung!”

 

Hyungseob grins. “Hey there, Woong-ah. Miss me?”

 

Euiwoong collects himself enough to wave a hand somewhat dismissively. “I see you around enough on tv these days,” he sniffs, but Hyungseob can tell that he’s happy to see him. “Everyone’s talking about you. You’re becoming a real celebrity.”

 

Hyungseob doesn’t have time to follow the news. “That so?”

 

“Mm hm.”

 

Hyungseob looks at his phone for the time. “Well, I’ve got a competition tomorrow, so I can’t stay long,” he says apologetically. “I’ll get the usual hot chocolate.”

 

Euiwoong places a steaming cup in front of him in record time. “It’s on the house.”

 

“Huh?” Hyungseob frowns. “No no, you don't have to. I haven’t been here in ages.”

 

Euiwoong is stubborn. “Promote us on tv!” He says instead, taking the cup and shoving it in his face.

 

That gets a laugh out of him. “Well, you can count on that, then,” he promises as he takes his cup and waves goodbye.

 

 

He takes the long way home to pass by the park. The rink is there again – he can’t believe it’d been a year since he used to skate here. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He walks up to the edge to peer inside. After months of training on Olympic grade ice, this ice looks positively horrifying under the light of the dimly lit streetlamps. How’d he even manage to practice here? Maybe that’s why he’d adapted so well to training. He lets out a small laugh. _How things have changed._

 

He hears a frantic crunch of shoes on grass behind him just as he turns to begin the walk home. Someonw’s running to the rink, and he quickly moves to get out of the way and yelps when the person changes direction with him.

 

The person comes to a stop in front of him, hands to his knees and panting heavily and Hyungseob’s eyes widen to the size of saucers when he sees who it is. “Woojin?”

 

Woojin straightens, cheeks flushed and hair a mess from running. He raises a hand in greeting, still breathing hard. “Hi,” he says breathlessly.

 

Hyungseob wraps his arms around Woojin in a hug, and his heart squeezes in his chest. “Heya,” he smiles, confused, and lets go to look at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Japan?”

 

“Just got back a few hours ago,” comes the reply. He runs a hand through his hair. “We’ve, uh, got some time off after the tour, so I went straight to the convenience store. And Euiwoong said you just left, so I was hoping to catch you here.”

 

“Well, I’m happy you did,” Hyungseob says, “You should rest. The tour must’ve been exhausting.”

 

Woojin brushes it off, as if it isn’t important. “Do you still remember our promise?” he asks instead, and his eyes are earnest when they look into Hyungseob’s.

 

Hyungseob nods. “Of course I do.”

 

“I’m coming to see you tomorrow.”

 

A smile breaks out on his face despite himself. “Really?” When he gets a _yeah_ in affirmative, he tilts his head to the side. “But we’re here today too,” he reasons. “Couldn’t you tell me now, and then just come tomorrow anyways?”

 

“No no no, I told myself tomorrow,” Woojin insists, flushing in the dark and looking away, and Hyungseob thinks he understands.

 

“Okay then,” he says. And in one smooth movement, he dives to plant a swift peck on Woojin’s lips. The idol lifts a hand to his mouth, face red and eyes wide. “For luck,” Hyungseob explains, and with a quick parting wave, he turns to run off into the night.

 

 

—————

 

 

The free program is the best he’s ever done it, and Hyungseob manages to finish second overall. _Not bad,_ he tells himself. _Not_ _too bad at all._

 

“Five points,” Zhengting says with a smile, when Hyungseob congratulates him just before the medal ceremony. “If you no mess the short program yesterday, maybe you get gold.”

 

“Next year for sure,” Hyungseob promises, and Zhengting laughs.

 

“I am happy you come back.”

 

 

 

Woojin’s waiting outside his dressing room when he returns. His hair is black now, Hyungseob notices. It’d seemed darker yesterday, but it had been too dark to tell for sure. The idol smiles behind a mask, his whole face lighting up when he sees Hyungseob. “You were amazing out there,” he says. “Congratulations.”

 

“Thanks,” the skater beams, blush rising up his cheeks to his ears. “And thanks for coming. It means a lot.”

He heads into the room, removing the medal from around his neck. “How’d you get into the dressing room area?” he asks.

 

Woojin follows him inside, removing his mask and watching him do so. “I have my ways,” he says mysteriously, providing no further explanation.

 

 _Must be a celebrity thing_. Hyungseob places the silver medal carefully on the table before turning to face the idol. “Well, you had something to tell me,” he sings, rocking back and forth on his skates. With them on, he’s a little taller than Woojin.

 

Woojin reddens at the reminder. He crosses his arms. “But you know what I’m going to say,” he complains.

 

“Hey,” Hyungseob laughs, sitting down onto the table. “Doesn’t mean you don’t have to say it!”

 

Woojin runs a hand down his still red face. Hyungseob finds it endearing.

 

And then Woojin crosses the distance between them, and Hyungseob is looking into his dark, fox-like eyes. He watches as Woojin takes in a deep breath.

 

“I like you,” he says in a rush, and Hyungseob’s heart soars in his chest. “A lot. And. I know I’m an idol with an unpredictable, ever-changing schedule, and you’re training crazy hours all day every day, so I won’t ask you to go out with me, but…” he licks his lips, and Hyungseob’s eyes flicker down to the movement. “Be mine?”

 

Hyungseob smiles, slipping his arms around Woojin’s waist. “I was yours from the start,” he promises.

 

Woojin is the one to kiss him this time, and maybe later, Hyungseob would look back and remember that this moment was rather like a dazzling firework.

**Author's Note:**

> Wishing you all a happy and blessed 2018! Much love~


End file.
